


Folsom Prison Blues (Revisited)

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Drama, During Canon, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kinks, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-07
Updated: 2008-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: This is a re-imagining of the whole Supernatural canon with the caveat that some things really are just meant to be. (Please be mindful of the warnings I've included. This is prison, folks, and this story has earned its rating.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Sam and Dean are not brothers here and except for the title and Sam's booking number, this story has nothing to do with the episode _Folsom Prison Blues._
> 
> Thanks to _SylvanWitch_ for being a wealth of helpful hints, enthusiasm, support, and patience through all my neurotic re-writes. I am solely responsible for any remaining mistakes.
> 
> I'm using Jeffery Dean Morgan's real name because I felt it would be implausible to have three unrelated Winchesters in the same story. The use of that name is significant because this character is meant to loosely mirror John Winchester's role as authority figure. I would like to emphasize that he is a _character_ and **not** an attempt at RP crossover.
> 
> If AU isn't usually your thing, give this a try.
> 
> This is my first fic, second posting. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.

  
Author's notes: Remember those warnings at the top? This is the first reason for them.  


* * *

Title: Folsom Prison Blues (Revisited)

Chapter: 1

Author: jdax

Pairings: Sam/Dean, Sam/OMC’s, Dean/OMC’s, Dean/OFC's

Rating: NC-17

Categories: AU, Rape/Non-Con, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Language

Warnings: Dark fic, Potentially offensive themes.(This _is_ prison, after all.)

Spoilers: Small spoilers for Season 1 and 2.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing. It’s all about Kripke, the lucky bastard. 

 

 

“On your knees, Winchester!” 

 

Prisoner number 81A3826 backed against the laundry room wall slowly, his eyes darting back and forth in search of a breach, some small porthole of escape, but there was none. Instead, he faced four large, horny, hardened criminals staring back at him, licking their lips and leering obscenely at his crotch. He knew the outline of his erection was clearly visible even through his loose fitting orange uniform and suddenly he was willing to do just about anything to take back the last sixty seconds of his life. 

 

While he’d been folding thread-bare prison bed-sheets and trying to ignore the nauseating smell of bleach, sweat and some third thing he couldn’t quite place, his mind had mistakenly wandered off to the dream he’d had last night about banging Halle Berry or some other really hot chick he had absolutely no chance with, but three months without sex will do that to a guy. A dumb, distracted look had taken over his face, just the kind of thing lifers like Eddie Doyle live for. 

 

It was the kind of rookie mistake Doyle and his gang had been waiting for him to make since he tumbled off the prison bus twelve weeks ago, all gangly lines and planes. He’d kept to himself mostly and had been hard to pin down. The kid knew how to not be seen when he wanted to, walked the perimeter of the yard, didn’t talk much. He hadn’t made friends but hadn’t made enemies, either, and people left him alone mostly. No one had seen him here before and he didn’t really fit the prisoner profile, but something in the world-weary way such a young man carried himself unsettled them. He was an anomaly, a disruption to the flow of things. Most of the prisoners couldn’t get a read on him, friend or foe, but they could tell, on the rare occasion he looked them in the eye, he was…different. Something disturbing lurked below the surface of his down-home good-looks and soft-spoken manner and most of the other inmates wanted no part of it.

 

Old habits die hard and up until a few days ago, he had lived on high alert, his senses primed to the max during the day and his body tense and at the ready to defend himself at night as he lay in the bottom bunk listening: listening for footsteps that stopped outside his cell and lingered too long or snoring from his roommate that sounded fake. His nights were sleepless and, at that point, dreamless. Up until last night, he had only bad memories to look forward to when he laid down, but during the day, he had begun to settle in a bit more, joked a little with the guys across from him at the chow table, nodded at the guards from time to time, allowed himself to indulge in the occasional stray thought while he pulled his assigned duty… 

 

“You deaf, boy? I said on your knees, bitch!” Eddie Doyle lunged, grabbing him by the collar with one hand and punching him hard in the jaw with the other.

 

“The name’s Sam,” he said matter-of-factly as he spat blood onto the floor, then turned to face his assailant again. The older man stood quietly for a moment, a little stunned. They didn’t usually talk back.

 

“I don’t give a shit if you’re the president of the fucking United States,” he growled, pressing his large, bulky frame against Sam’s. Sam could smell the man’s breath, heavy and foul with the evidence of his contraband: whiskey and unfiltered cigarettes. He successfully suppressed the urge to vomit.

 

Sam knew he was trapped as the other three men circled nearer, closing in like a pack of ravenous wolves. He considered calling for help but decided that, over the din of the industrial washers, no one would hear him. The guards wouldn’t make another pass this way for about ten minutes and Sam was sure he didn’t want to get the attention of anyone else who might be near-by. No one with a healthy survival instinct came down here unless they were unlucky enough to pull duty. There were too many places to be ambushed among the large machines or behind boxes piled high throughout the room. He considered giving in quietly to avoid making things worse, but realized that capitulation now would be an invitation for more of the same later. There was only one thing to do.

 

His muscles tensed and he strained away from their hands as they lewdly groped and fondled him. He gritted his teeth and swung at them, clawing at each of them and landing several punches before they pinned him to the wall with no chance of escape. And now, they were pissed. For his trouble, Sam came away with the beginnings of a black eye.

 

“You’re gonna pay for that, you little punk!” Doyle said. He grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt and yanked him away from the wall just as the other three closed in behind him, grabbing his arms and twisting them painfully in a bruising grip. Sam groaned through gritted teeth and they all laughed cruelly at his apparent defeat. Then, the three behind him, one at each side and the other at his back, pushed down roughly on his shoulders, finally driving him to his knees.

 

Sam coughed and spat blood again but vowed to make no other noise as he watched the man in front of him unzip his pants, pull out his half-hard dick and shove it in his face. Doyle stroked his cock a few times as he leered at Sam, then pressed it to his lips.

 

“Suck it,” he ordered.

 

Sam didn’t make a move, just stared straight ahead and kept his lips pressed tightly together. It was a useless gesture, but a man has his pride. 

 

Doyle grabbed a fistful of Sam’s hair and yanked his head back roughly, saying, “Take it, God damn it, or so help me, I’ll turn you around right now and dry fuck you!”

 

The threat was quickly followed by the cold press of a blade to Sam’s neck by one of the others.

 

Clearly, stalling was no longer an option. 

 

Soon, the soft, wet sounds of reluctant sucking were drowned out, just as Sam predicted, by the booming, hollow buzz and hum of the laundry room. The large, shadowy space, the hard concrete floor, the unrelenting heat from the dryers, the press of metal against his neck and the sweat beading on their faces all conspired to make it seem even dirtier. At least, he thought, he was being spared the soundtrack of his debauchery. Maybe, in the coming years, these particular memories would be kind enough to haunt him silently. 

 

He wasn’t giving it enough effort or wasn’t showing enough enthusiasm; who knows, but his poor performance gave them the idea that he lacked sufficient motivation. That, in turn, earned him a hand snaking around his waist and slipping down the front of his pants—whose hand, he didn’t know. Hot, sweaty, calloused fingers grabbed his cock and began stroking roughly but not unpleasantly, creating a weird counterpoint to the pain shooting through his arms as they continued to be held fast. Sam squeezed his eyes shut. _Just get through this_ , he willed himself. _Survival now, revenge later._

 

Sam’s cock grew painfully hard under those unfamiliar hands, and now there were four sets of them pressing into his flesh at different points, wringing equal amounts of pleasure and pain from his body. To his horror, he realized that he could feel all four of their cocks, as well: one pressing against each thigh, one straining against his ass and of course, the one fucking his mouth. Despite his circumstances, Sam considered himself very lucky that his clothes were still on; he’d stalled long enough that it seemed they didn’t have enough time to rape him before the next security check. He’d walk out of here with a wounded ego, a black eye and a few come stains on his pants, but he could live with that for now. Doyle would get what he had coming to him. He could count on it. 

 

Suddenly, the sounds of Doyle’s imminent orgasm grew loud enough to finally reach Sam’s ears. _Thank God,_ he thought. _It’s almost over._

 

“Oh, yeah! Oh, fuck!” Doyle panted. His face grew red with exertion as he strained to climax. “I knew you’d have a sweet mouth, punk. Christ, you’re tight!” Doyle’s hands slipped into Sam’s hair and held on as he pumped his hips faster fucking Sam’s mouth in quick, demanding, bursts. After exactly two more hard strokes, they were both there and Sam gagged on the come shooting down his throat as he came, hard and fast, all over the floor. Doyle’s fingers clutched Sam’s head just this side of painful as he rode out the rest of his orgasm. 

 

When it was over, Sam tried hard to remain upright; a task made all the more difficult by the overwhelming urge to wretch. All the hands that had been violating him had also been supporting him and now that they were gone, his satiated body suddenly felt too heavy. With one quick shove from Eddie, he fell to the floor. 

 

“Look at you, already getting on your back for me,” Doyle laughed as he zipped his pants up. A blush, inspired partly by anger and partly by shame, rose to Sam’s cheeks and he slowly tucked himself back in. The identity of that third smell he’d wondered about earlier suddenly became clear. 

 

As he was leaving, Eddie grabbed his own crotch, looked down at Sam and sneered, “There’s more where that came from, bitch.” A peel of laughter followed from the other three as they headed out the heavy double doors, back toward the populated area, leaving Sam and Doyle alone. Sam slowly sat up, then stood. A chilling expression clouded over his features as he defaulted back to the familiarity of his self-imposed isolation. 

 

“You try anything like that again and I’ll kill you,” Sam warned.

 

The smile faded on Doyle’s lips. His mouth hung open slightly and Sam watched with vague satisfaction as he struggled to respond. Finally, he blurted out angrily, “You’ve gotta be kidding. No one threatens me! No one!”

 

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?” Sam’s voice was low and dangerous as he stepped forward, for the first time making use of his greater height to get his point across. He would have liked to reach out and strangle Doyle, snap his neck right there, but he didn’t. Instead, he dismissively pushed past him. 

 

“Hey, I’m still talking to you, asshole! Don’t walk away from me!” Doyle grabbed Sam’s arm, spinning him back around. He held his arm with one hand and punched him in the mouth with the other. It was a wicked punch, but Sam rolled with it. Just as Doyle was poised to punch him in the gut, Sam’s patience ran out and he delivered a devastating kick to Doyle’s crotch, sending the older man reeling. He doubled over as a litany of curses rent the air. 

 

Sam’s gaze was steady as their eyes locked and, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth to remove the last of the come, he said simply, “The name is Sam.”


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes: PTSD- Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

For those who don't know, Nicorette is a product, in this case gum, that helps people stop smoking.  


* * *

***

Officer Dean Winchester rolled his 1974 Chevy Nova slowly up to the security gate at Folsom State Prison and it sputtered to a stop. The guard in the booth was on the phone, but gave Dean a surprised smile and a friendly wave as he gestured for him to wait, then cradled the phone on one shoulder while he began searching madly for the sign-in clipboard.

 

Dean smiled back politely, then began a search of his own for the pack of cigarettes he had stashed in the glove box. He leaned over with one hand and pushed the button. Nothing. He pushed the button again. Nothing. He sighed, made a fist, and gave the thing one good punch before the door suddenly popped open, spilling all his dirty little secrets: An empty beer bottle (he’d thought he’d picked all those up before he decided to go back to work), a skin mag whose cover included a busty brunette and a few come-covered fingerprints, a stack of unpaid bills, a pamphlet about PTSD, and finally, the damn pack of cigarettes. About the time he slipped one between his lips, the guard stuck his head out the window.

 

“Good morning, sir. Sorry it’s taking so long. Red tape and all… hey, I thought you quit?” 

 

Dean froze, unsure how to answer that inevitably awkward question. In the six months he’d been ignoring his therapist, certainly he had gleaned _something_ useful to do in stressful situations.

 

_What should he call it? Break? Vacation? Hiatus?_ Those words conjured up the wrong images. Seven months ago he’d been in his own personal hell and it had taken the next six months for him to claw his way out of it. He still wasn’t all here, but a week ago he’d decided it was time to rejoin the land of the living, even though he knew that meant facing down the last of his demons.

 

Dean pulled the cigarette from his mouth and the dry skin from his lips caught and tugged on it, refusing to let go. Maybe this was one of those signs from God his therapist was always prattling on about. Maybe Dr. Bennett had been wrong and God intended for Dean to die by his own hand after all. Sneaky bastard.

 

Dean licked his lips and said, “Leave of absence. It should all be right there on the schedule.”

 

The guard looked a little confused, then nodded toward the cigarette. “Smoking, sir. I thought you quit smoking.”

 

Right.

 

They exchanged an awkward laugh, then the guard turned to answer the phone again. 

 

Dean picked up the cigarette, lit it before he’d have time to change his mind, then took one long, life-sustaining drag as he closed his eyes and willed himself to stop being so damn jumpy. He dug up a couple of the cheesy affirmations Dr. Bennet was always saying to him, and while they didn’t really make him feel any better, they made him realize that facing his first day back at work after six months off the job and no idea what awaited him was still less nauseating than the counseling he had had to endure. 

 

“Sir? Sir?” The guard was handing him the sign-in sheet.

 

Dean snapped out of his thoughts and took the clipboard. A moment later, the gate opened its metallic maw and Dean drove through as Folsom State Prison swallowed him whole. Again.

***

Most of Officer Winchester’s co-workers were understanding if not a bit awkward. They smiled politely at him, then looked down at the floor and hurried away on some mumbled excuse. Everyone had a hard time looking at him. He’d lost too much weight and his face was etched with the evidence of everything he had been through. More so than anything, he looked hardened; there was no hint of his previous youthful idealism. Whereas he used to think he could change the world, now he was just trying desperately not to let it change him.

 

It was hardest of all for the guards he had worked with --well, the ones who were left, anyway. When dozens of their own had been wheeled out of this place on gurneys six months ago, Dean among them, they all felt like they’d failed. When news reached them that half that number had subsequently died, they wanted to as well. Survivor guilt abounded, especially for Dean, who had been the only one in his assigned unit to make it out alive. He’d tried more than once to fix that over the last half year, but apparently God found his suffering a little too amusing. 

 

Dean sat down at his new desk, sighing as he looked at the pile of paperwork sitting by his ‘IN’ box. He shrugged and smiled a little. Good. That should keep him busy. He could just stay here, alone in his office, and get caught up. No problem. He hadn’t been a fan of paperwork before, preferring to get his hands dirty with riot duty and crowd control, but he could live with this for awhile. Just a nice, predictable, completely boring desk job. 

 

Sure.

 

_Monday_

 

A few people stopped by, one of whom brought a casserole. Dean accepted it with a gracious smile, although he was pretty sure casseroles were for funerals. At lunch time, he drank a cup of coffee, took a few bites of the casserole, then filed a couple hundred incident reports. He took some pride in the fact that he didn’t take a smoke break.

 

_Tuesday_

 

Dean filed more reports and flirted half-heartedly with one of the new booking officers. She didn’t have that ‘poor Dean’ look, and he found that kind of sexy. He thought about getting her number and maybe asking her out for coffee some time. In the afternoon, he grabbed a powdered doughnut while he was waiting in line for the copier. When it was his turn, the damn thing jammed. He spent a few minutes opening draws and adjusting components before he finally ‘fixed’ it the only way that ever worked for him: by pounding it once and hard in just the right spot. Dean smirked. That sounded vaguely dirty. That, in turn, got him thinking about the cute red-head who handled Personal Effects. _Man, that had been a sweet piece of ass. Maybe he should have called her back._ By the time his copies were ready, he was sporting a major hard-on. He was planning to go back to his office and jerk off quietly when he realized people were staring at him. He looked down and saw what they were looking at; some random white marks on the front of his pants, right at the crotch. Dean lowered his copies to waist level and quickly walked out the door. God, he wanted a cigarette. 

 

_Wednesday_

 

The coffee machine broke. That was bad.

 

The new booking officer, Tina Fay, turned him down for coffee but met him in his office for a quick screw before lunch. That was good.

 

Courtesy of the rumor mill, his incident at the copier on Tuesday had turned into a long-winded, convoluted story placing him in a public restroom with a hooker he had just booked. It took him a half-hour to convince his boss otherwise. That was bad. When he hung up with him, he ate half a pack of Nicorette gum, then put in for a full-time transfer back to the prison floor. 

 

_Thursday_

 

The first thing Dean did was check the coffee machine, and sure enough, it was working. By lunch time, he had finished two pots and the other half of his Nicorette pack. 

 

 

_Friday_

 

Tina Fay, the booking officer with the porn star name, stopped by after the morning meeting for an encore of Wednesday’s performance. Afterwards, as she was buttoning up her blouse, she casually mentioned some ‘weird stories’ she’d been hearing over the last couple of months. Strange, creepy things were happening with the prisoners. Dean didn’t give it too much thought when she mentioned they’d been acting strangely, dying at a concerning rate and under unusual circumstances. Forensics was examining a bizarre substance that had been found, so far mainly in isolated, unused parts of the prison. Dean rolled his eyes. Yeah, right. Then how did it get there? This was why he didn’t like talking afterwards.

 

Before she left, she dropped a list of names on his desk: prisoners who had met their ninety days and were up for evaluation on performance and privileges. “We need someone to interview these guys.”

 

Dean shrugged as he pushed the paper aside. 

 

“It would go a long way towards getting that transfer, if you still want it,” she said, smiling coyly. He glared at her. _How the hell did she know he’d put in for a transfer?_ He sighed. _Damn rumor mill._

 

“You do still want it, don’t you?” She pressed.

 

_Hell, yeah. Anything was better than dealing with this bureaucratic bullshit every day._

 

She pointed out that there was a Winchester on the list. No, he didn’t think that was cute, as she seemed to. She wondered if they were related, maybe even long-lost brothers. _Yeah, right. Like two guys that different could possibly come from the same gene pool._ She thought that would be funny. He rolled his eyes. _Did she ever stop talking?_

 

Nice kid, she’d heard, but a little weird. One of the few prisoners who was quiet and kept to himself.

 

Fine with Dean. That was the way he preferred them. 

 

He would meet with him on Monday. Dean didn’t know it yet, but that would be good. And bad.


	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes: Once again, many thanks to SylvanWitch for guiding me through my difficulties with this chapter, in particular. As always, any remaining mistakes are all on me.  


* * *

Folsom Prison Blues (Revisited)

Author: jdax

Pairings: Dean/Sam, Sam/OMC’s, Dean/OMC’s, Dean/OFC

Rating: NC-17 (For the whole story)

Categories: AU, Violence, Rape/Non-con, Hurt/Comfort, Language

Spoilers: Overall Series

Warnings: Dark themes - sex, violence, language, etc. You know the drill.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but if I did...

***

Dean lay in bed that night tossing and turning as the unwelcome, unwanted images from seven months ago played themselves out in his mind:

 

In retrospect, he’d realized that there had been some unusual chatter in the prison that day, but it was pretty low level and things like that cycled through from time to time, especially around the time new prisoners showed up. The guards, Dean among them, had chalked it up to the heat and excitement over fresh blood as they hadn’t had a new batch of prisoners in weeks. The days leading up to their arrival were always tense because their resources were stretched so thin during the in-take process, and occasionally, some genius got the idea to start some trouble. But, they weren’t worried. Folsom Prison hadn’t seen any real rioting in years. 

 

Then the bus was late. 

 

No one knew exactly how or when it started, but the prisoners were out of control by the time the bus pulled up to the gates three days late. They had an even bigger problem when the driver was told to turn back, as the men on the bus were tired, hungry and by that time, pretty pissed off. They pleaded with the driver to let them off. The driver pleaded with the guard. Then the prisoners stole the guard’s gun and shot them both. 

 

Inside the prison, Dean and the other guards had donned protective gear and were in the process of putting Cell Block B in total lock down. They did their damndest to hold back wave after wave of prisoners, but finally, they were overcome by their sheer numbers and the next thing Dean knew, he and three of his buddies were being held at gun point by a tall, rotund, balding Caucasian prisoner as two of his cohorts removed their Kevlar. In the distance, the sounds of screaming and rioting were punctuated by the occasional gunshot.

 

“We’re trained to negotiate,” one of the guards said, his eyes wide with fear. Dean glanced over at him as one of the other prisoners, a muscular Latino kid who looked to be about twenty-five, frisked him roughly. The third prisoner, a young skinhead, was confiscating their weapons and radios. _Weird combo,_ Dean thought. He guessed their mutual hatred of the guards had helped them overcome their personal differences. Dean then glanced at the young guard again. He could see the wheels turning in his head, as if his police academy training would somehow save him if he could just find the right thing to say. 

 

“Shut up!” The older prisoner hit him in the back with the handle of the gun. 

 

All three of the guards were soon stripped to their boxers and t-shirts, then lined up side-by-side on the cold concrete of the corridor in Cell Block B. 

 

“On your knees!” The older prisoner ordered angrily.

 

_The execution position,_ Dean thought numbly as he sank to the floor.

 

Their radios lay discarded several feet away. Dean could sometimes hear them crackle to life and, buried beneath the static and the thrumming roar of chaos, there was the unmistakable sound of other guards, friends of his, screaming for help from some distant part of the prison. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it easier to imagine the ways they were being tortured, maybe raped, and certainly killed. Dean vaguely wondered if this was what Hell was like.

 

Dean and the others were beaten within an inch of their lives, then the older prisoner cocked the gun and aimed it at each of their heads in turn. 

 

The man on Dean’s right, the young guard who had offered to negotiate, suddenly went very pale and begged, “Please! I have a family! I have small children! Oh, God, please, don’t kill me!” His protests collapsed into a series of unintelligible whimpers and groans.

 

The guard on Dean’s left, an older, second-generation Mexican, whispered to no one in particular, “El dios me protegera. Tengo fe.” Then, he bowed his head and began praying in Spanish, his litany interrupted every couple of seconds by the hitch in his voice as he held back his sobs.

 

Dean just closed his eyes. He had no faith and he had no family; he had nothing to bargain with or for, but that didn’t stop him from trying when the barrel of the gun was pressed to the back of his head.

 

“Two bullets, three guards. Let’s have some fun, boys!” their captor said as he grinned at the other prisoners. Their wicked laughter filled the corridor and almost drowned out the sound of three men pleading for their lives.

 

Almost.

 

*

 

Dean awoke in a cold sweat, his sheets sticking to him as he kicked them violently away. He sat there, naked in the dark, shaking, sobbing and wondering what the fuck God wanted from him. He couldn’t believe he ever used to think he was the lucky one.

 

Several hours later, Dean drifted off into a light, fitful sleep. As he went under, an image of the old Mexican’s face followed him into unconsciousness. His lips were moving, but Dean couldn’t hear what he was saying. In the morning, Dean had a headache and a general feeling of unease. The headache went away with a couple of Tylenol and a bottle of beer, but the bad feeling lingered. That evening, he was sitting at the kitchen table sorting through his mail when he came across a flier for a new church that had opened across town. Dean snorted and was about to toss it in the trash when a phrase jumped out at him. At the top of the flier in large, red print, was the question, _Do you feel God has abandoned you?_ Like so many things these days, it was printed in multiple languages. Directly under that bold title was the Spanish translation and Dean stared hard at the paper as it trembled in his hand. 

 

_Usted siente a dios le ha abandonado?_

 

Dean slowly put the paper down and opened a bottle of beer. He sat there, sipping and thinking as remnants of the old Mexican’s words began to fall into place. 

 

Then, it hit him. Dean remembered enough from Spanish 101 to convert a question into a statement.

 

_“El dios le ha abandonado,”_ he had said.

 

_“God has abandoned you.”_

 

Dean tore up the flier and threw it away, mumbling grimly, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

***

On Monday morning, Dean sat in interview room two tapping his pen impatiently on the table. He glanced at his watch for the fourth time in what turned out to be six minutes. _Where was this guy?_ He’d asked to meet with prisoner 81A3826 over forty-five minutes ago. _How long did it take to walk a single man down the hall and up two flights of stairs?_

 

The answer, it seemed, was fifty-two minutes when you had to make an unexpected detour to the infirmary en-route. Officer Winchester had not been informed and was gathering up his things from the table when the com box on the wall squawked. 

 

“Officer Winchester?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“The prisoner you requested has just arrived.”

 

_Of course._

 

Dean sighed. The waiting had put him in a bad mood and now he was slightly on edge. He cleared his throat and said as politely as he could, “Send him in.”

 

There was a loud buzzing noise, then the door swung open. Dean stood up. This would be his first prisoner contact since he came back to work. He clenched his fists a couple of times in an effort to stop his hands from trembling.

 

The prisoner entered, cuffed and shackled, flanked by two officers Dean had never seen before. Good. Maybe he could avoid potentially embarrassing idle banter. He relaxed a little as the officers broke rank. One stood by the door, the other escorted the prisoner to the chair across the table from Dean. Officer Winchester stepped back as the prisoner was cuffed to the table itself, then he sat down, picked up the folder marked Winchester, Sam and began.

 

Dean searched through the file silently for a moment, flipping through pages looking for his interview questions. His hands were trembling again and he hoped to God this guy hadn’t noticed. _Jesus, why was he so jumpy?_ Tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. The room was deathly still -- so still, in fact, one of the guards began shifting uncomfortably. 

 

Sam leaned in a little and whispered, “If this is an intimidation tactic, you really suck at it.”

 

Dean’s head snapped up and he was just about ready to tell this guy off when he was suddenly and completely disarmed by a goofy, lop-sided grin.

 

He didn’t know it yet, but that was the beginning of the end.

 

Sitting back, Dean closed the folder and pushed it aside.

 

“I gather that’s why you’re late,” Dean remarked, nodding towards the black eye. “What happened?”

 

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

 

“Really? Cause I hear you aren’t exactly winning friends and influencing people.”

 

Sam shrugged. “I do okay.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Dean eyed the bruises on Sam’s face doubtfully. “How do you figure?”

 

“I’m still alive.”

 

Dean nodded slowly. “Ok, fair enough. Let’s try something else. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” “You mean, ‘Why am I here?’”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sam regarded Dean carefully, deciding how much truth he was going to tell.

 

Dean looked at him expectantly.

 

Silence.

 

“Hey,” one of the officers at the door barked. “Answer the question, son.”

 

Sam decided they weren’t ready for the whole truth, not by a long shot. He shrugged, then recited his list of offenses. “I’m charged with credit card fraud, mail fraud, impersonating a federal marshal, grave desecration, arson, and, oh yeah, first degree murder.”

 

Dean blinked but tried to keep his face neutral. That was quite possibly the weirdest rap sheet he’d ever heard of. Moreover, it hardly seemed possible that it could belong to this young, fresh-faced, unassuming kid. He should be running down a field carrying a football, knocking back beers with his buddies at a frat party or banging some pretty co-ed in the backseat of his car, not sitting across from a down and out cop with suicidal tendencies. _What the hell happened to you, man?_ Dean thought sadly. The question echoed, hollow and unanswered, in his mind as he wondered exactly who he was asking it of.

 

Dean decided to skip to the end.

 

“I looked over your file. You’ve been cited for good behavior by the warden, but I’m a little concerned about your inability to integrate with the other inmates.”

 

“Like I said, I do okay.”

 

Dean cleared his throat. “With a sheet like yours, you’re going to need to do better than okay to get through the stretch of time you’re facing.”

 

“Well, I can’t exactly invite them out for a beer or whatever people are supposed to do to deal with each other. Besides, I’m not here to buddy up with these guys.”

 

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re one of them.” 

 

“Like hell I am.”

 

Sam looked Officer Winchester straight in the eye and a chill ran up his spine. Everything Dean had heard about this guy was true. That was a first.

 

Dean shifted uncomfortably, then picked up his pen and scribbled a few notes on a Post-it on the front of his folder.

 

“I’m recommending you for an upgrade in privileges and expanded access to authorized areas of the prison.” He stopped writing for a second, then added, “I’d also like you to take an extra fifteen minutes of rec time twice a week.”

 

He looked up. Sam was still looking at him and it was unnerving. Dean had done hundreds of these interviews in his time and no one had put him off balance like this before. He cleared his throat. 

 

“Do you have any questions?”

 

“I don’t suppose you can do anything about the food around here, can you?” Sam asked hopefully.

 

Dean grinned despite himself. “Sorry, can’t help you there.”

 

Sam shook his head. “Thought this place had rules against cruel and unusual punishment.”

 

A few minutes later, Dean was alone in the room again. He flipped open Sam’s file and read it again. There wasn’t much there really and it ended up being as much of a mystery as the man himself. It said he’d been raised on the road by a father and a brother, both of whom were listed as deceased. They were characterized as survivalists and the words _extremely dangerous_ were highlighted throughout the document. 

 

Dean scribbled the words ‘possible denial’ and ‘anti-social behavior’ on a piece of paper and stuck it inside Sam’s file. He couldn’t help but give a low, rueful chuckle, as that could easily describe him these days as well.

 

When he got back to his office, Dean made a few phone calls about Sam’s schedule over the last 48 hours. Long story short, he got him taken off laundry duty.

***

Eddie Doyle and his crew stayed away from Sam for the most part, although they did still rough him up from time to time, just to remind him who was boss.

 

At least twice a week, Sam would accidentally encounter Doyle fucking some other poor bastard behind a file cabinet or the dumpster or, his new favorite spot, the last stall in the library bathroom. No one ever went in there. Sam imagined the laundry room was still on his list, too.

***

Officer Winchester and prisoner Winchester met a couple more times over the next several weeks. Their conversations were friendly enough but completely unproductive as far as Dean was concerned. He was trying to get a read on the guy, to get a handle on his mental and emotional state, but he remained elusive.

 

Then, one day, toward the end of their session, Dean casually asked what Sam did for a living on the outside.

 

Sam had never answered that question truthfully, but they had both been pleasantly surprised to find that they had built a rapport, and in that moment, part of him desperately wanted someone to confide in. 

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Sam said flatly.

 

Dean shrugged. “Try me.”

 

Sam bit his lip, hesitated, then said, “I’m a hunter.”

 

“A hunter,” Dean repeated. That was a new one on him. He cleared his throat. “What did you hunt?” he asked with waning interest. He should have known when he first met this kid; he looked liked he could be the poster boy for 4H. Dean settled in for what he just knew was going to be a mind-numbing conversation.

 

“Ghosts and demons mostly, but right now I’m keeping an eye out for a shape-shifter,” came the wholly unexpected answer.

 

Dean blinked and stared. And blinked. 

 

“Ghosts and demons?” Dean repeated slowly.

 

“And shape-shifters,” Sam reminded him.

 

Dean sighed. _Okay, what the hell._ He’d bite.

 

“What’s a shape-shifter?”

 

*

 

At the end of the session, Dean laid a warm, comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder and reiterated his recommendation that he get out of his cell more often. Somehow, it wasn’t condescending, though. Dean also added a note to his file about delusions and a possible psychiatric evaluation. _Damn shame, a nice-looking kid like that ending up in a place like this._ Dean shook his head and flopped down in his chair, wondering when the hell he’d gotten to be such a push-over.

***

That night, back in the dark of his cell, Sam lay on his bunk listening, as always, for his cellmate to fall asleep. Then, armed with the sense-memory of Dean’s warmth and an afterthought of guilt, Sam jerked off urgently and quietly to the most torturous orgasm of his young life.

***

Sam took to heart Officer Winchester’s recommendation that he socialize a little more. To that end, he participated in the occasional card game, dice game, or basketball game in a bid to begin trading and gathering his own contraband. For the rare or hard-to-find items, sometimes a small sexual favor was exchanged, but it was always brief, meaningless, and on Sam’s terms only. He could get away with that because the other inmates were still afraid of him. Most importantly, he never used the same supplier twice because he didn’t want anyone asking too many questions about his requests or getting the idea that he was for sale.

***

“Hey, any word on that transfer yet, Winchester?” The guard at the gate asked Dean one night as he was signing out.

 

“No.” Dean had stopped wondering how the news had spread so fast.

 

“Bet you’ll be glad when you get to stop babysitting the newbies, huh?”

 

Suddenly and completely unexpectedly, Sam’s lop-sided grin came to mind and Dean couldn’t hold back a small grin of his own. 

 

“Sir?” The guard pressed.

 

Dean snapped back to attention. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

***

Later that evening, Dean found himself sitting alone at _One Night Stand_ nursing a beer and, much to his surprise, thinking about Sam. Dean was making a valiant effort to drown the images of his winsome smile, his warm, open, contagious laughter—that had happened only once, when Dean told him about the incident at the copier—and his freakishly large hands, but was failing miserably.

 

Except he wasn’t miserable. 

 

Hmmm….

 

Dean took a slow, thoughtful sip from his Corona as he quite unexpectedly found himself flirting with something completely foreign. He couldn’t put a name to it, really, but just rolled it around, toying with it from a safe remove. 

 

Before Dean could give too much consideration to what his comfortable buzz was mercifully filtering out, the solid ‘clunk’ of bottle meeting table jarred him from his thoughts. Dean jumped, momentarily disoriented until a long pair of legs and an impossibly short skirt came into view. Dean smiled like a kid being rewarded with dessert.

 

“On the house,” the young waitress whispered, then leaned over to pointedly add, “Anything else I can do for you, baby?”

 

The smile broke into a full-fledged grin as Dean nodded slowly. Now _this_ he understood. 

 

*

 

If Dean had known he was going to have to wait three hours, he would have cut his losses, gone home, and taken matters into his own hands. 

 

By last call, he was really plastered. And horny.

 

“I get off in twenty,” she said finally as she gave him another beer with one hand and twirled a lock of her hair in the other. That had stopped being cute about an hour ago.

 

Dean smiled politely as she walked away, but this time, he didn’t bother to steal an appreciative glance at her ass.

 

_Man, I **must** be drunk,_ he thought.

 

_Women just don’t get it,_ he decided as he uncapped his last Corona with one hand and covertly adjusted himself with the other.

 

_Can’t leave a man waiting when he’s like this._

 

He shifted and fidgeted, trying to ease the painful pressure between his legs.

 

_Every guy knows that._

 

He raised the bottle to his lips, opened his mouth, tilted his head back slightly and took one long, slow, swallow as he thought, _Sam would know that._

 

*

 

Twenty-two minutes later, Dean struggled not to completely explode as the waitress sucked him off against a brick wall in the alley behind the bar. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying at first to ignore the pained little noises she made as gravel dug into her knees. Soon, guilt set in, and by some sheer force of will Dean was sure had long since been lost, he was able to bring himself to an excruciating stop, then offered his hand to her. He was desperate and drunk, but he wasn’t a jerk.

 

“Here,” he panted, as he helped her to her feet. She rewarded him with a smile that slowly dissolved into confusion, then resignation, when he rejected her kiss.

 

“Let’s just get on with it, sweetheart.”

 

She nodded and shrugged as she hitched up her skirt. Dean pushed her against the wall and soon, they were writhing, clutching, moaning and thrusting. They smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. Each was disheveled and used, exhausted from the business of living, but both were well past the point of caring about appearances.

 

Sweat shone on Dean’s face as he groaned and strained, trying to feel more. It was good, sure, but it wasn’t great. Something was just off. His body was certainly responding and she was definitely hot enough. Maybe it was his inebriation. Maybe she’d waited too long. Maybe he was just too damn tired. A loud sigh escaped his lips and he felt her body tense as she opened her mouth to say something. _God, he didn’t want to talk about it, but something… wasn’t…quite…_

 

Suddenly, he slipped out of her with a wet ‘pop’ and staggered backwards, but before she had time to utter a protest, he turned her around sharply. A moment later, she found her left cheek pressing into the wall as he smoothed his hand gently over her hip, then dug in and fucked her like his life depended on it.

***

Officer Winchester’s well intentioned request to have Sam removed from laundry duty for his protection backfired a few weeks later when Sam was re-assigned to clean all the bathrooms in the library.

***

One afternoon around four o’clock, Sam was pushing a mop bucket toward the bathroom at the start of his rounds when the door suddenly swung open and a young inmate bolted out, his eyes wide with panic. The door almost hit Sam in the face and he yelled, more rudely than he meant to, “Hey, watch what you’re doing!”

 

The young man stared at Sam and if it were possible, he suddenly looked even more stricken. His mouth moved, but no words came out. 

 

“Hey, are you alright?” Sam asked, a note of panic creeping into his voice.

 

“You…you…” he sputtered, then gave up, backed away and ran.

 

Sam wasn’t an idiot. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he quietly put the mop aside and dug into his pocket, coming up with the silver letter opener he had bargained for with a hand-job, a pack of Marlboros and a month’s worth of his rec time passes. 

 

He had been watching and waiting for this bastard to show himself for the last three months, ever since rumours started circulating that ‘weird ooze’ was being found once or twice a month in isolated, unused parts of the prison. Prisoners were disappearing then reappearing hours or days later. At first, there was only the occasional death, but lately the body count had risen like the shifter was getting sloppy, desperate or angry. Sam had wondered briefly at its motivation for choosing a prison as its target, deciding it was either sex or power or both. Regardless, it was a smart move. Among such a large, perpetually changing population, the damn thing could shift indefinitely.

 

Not that it mattered. Sam’s only intention at that moment was to put the shifter down. Permanently.

 

 

He’d deal with the inevitable fallout later.

***

Dean found himself sitting in interview room two again almost a month to the day he’d been there the first time. He tapped his foot impatiently, shifted, stood up, looked at his watch, then sat down again. He did this repeatedly over the next fifteen minutes until the com buzzed and the door swung open.

 

Once Sam was seated and handcuffed to the table, Dean motioned for the guards to step out.

 

“Sir, we have orders to stay with the prisoner,” they said.

 

Dean didn’t like pulling rank, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “Look, I know you’re just doing your job, but I got a call from brass this morning and they want answers ASAP about what happened last Friday in the library bathroom.”

 

“What are the orders, sir?” they asked solemnly.

 

Dean rolled up his sleeves as he replied matter-of-factly, “Any means necessary.”

 

They nodded and stepped out, turning the com box off as they left.

 

“Hey,” Dean called after them. “Video, too,” he said, nodding toward the security cameras mounted on the far wall. “All of them.”

 

That earned him a raised eyebrow, but they nodded and closed the door. Dean waited until he saw the red light go out on each camera before he approached the prisoner.

 

Sam sat motionless, cuffed and shackled, knowing he wouldn’t be able to defend himself from whatever Dean might be planning to do. 

 

“What happened on Friday?” Dean asked quietly.

 

Silence.

 

“What happened?” he repeated. 

 

Silence.

 

“Okay, let’s try something else.” 

 

He buzzed himself out the door and returned a moment later with two cups of coffee. Dean put one on the table in front of the prisoner as Sam asked, “So, are you going to beat me or something?”

 

“Nah, don’t want to get blood on my new shirt,” Dean smirked as he raised his cup to his mouth.

 

Sam regarded him for a minute, then slowly shuffled his bound hands toward his cup and took a mouthful, then promptly spit it out. Dean roared with laughter.

 

“What the hell?” Sam asked angrily.

 

Dean glanced down into his cup and swished it around. “Pretty vile stuff, isn’t it?”

 

Dean then watched a little too long as Sam slowly wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. That small gesture had Officer Winchester on the defensive. He quickly sat down to conceal his sudden and rather surprising erection. 

 

“I get it. The plan’s to kill me with your coffee,” Sam mused. 

 

Dean tried to stop them, but Sam was messing with his head again and before he knew it, the words were tumbling out of his mouth. “If I really wanted to kill you, I’d cook for you.”

 

Dean was absolutely mortified and for the first time, was speechless. He thought he should apologize or explain but figured that might undermine any authority he might have established. He rolled his eyes. _Well, the cooking comment probably already took care of that._

 

Sam let Dean’s embarrassment linger just a fraction of a second more before he rescued him with, “Can’t be any worse than the crap they serve here. After three months of that, I could survive anything, except maybe this coffee.”

 

They laughed.

 

“Tell me about Friday,” Dean said casually a short time later. “The report says that you were found tied up with a length of rope and small amounts of blood on your shirt in the bathroom of the library, right around the time you started your shift.” Dean made a valiant effort to ignore the images that came to mind.

 

Sam shrugged. “Yeah.”

 

“So, who did it?”

 

Dean knew that no prisoner liked to talk about being cornered and he was trying to be patient, but he was painfully aware of the ticking clock and the fact that he couldn’t keep his eyes off Sam’s damn near irresistible lips. _What the fuck?_ Dean scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration as he marshaled all his inner resources toward the single goal of looking anywhere but at Sam.

 

When Sam shifted nervously, the chains under the table rattled, sending a jolt straight to Dean’s dick. Sam noticed and bit his lip. 

 

“I don’t know. Some guys jumped me, then left,” Sam said.

 

“Do you know their names?”

 

Sam shrugged. “I’m not sure. It happened really fast.”

 

Dean stood, approached Sam, then sat down on the edge of the table. Suddenly, he was painfully aware of his breathing and worse yet, the rise and fall of Sam’s chest, his trembling lip and the look in his eyes that had somehow gone from anxiety to anticipation.

 

Dean was willing himself to focus and was failing miserably.

 

To test the waters, Sam slid his bound hands incrementally closer to Dean’s body while keeping a watchful eye on his face. Dean didn’t reciprocate, but he didn’t retreat, either. 

 

Then, Sam tilted his head up higher and was leaning forward slowly, looking intently at Dean the entire time. Dean, in turn, leaned down and tilted his head, wondering what the fuck he was doing the entire time.

 

Their mouths were just inches apart and Sam’s hands had slid up Dean’s leg and started rubbing his crotch in the most unimaginably pleasurable ways when Officer Winchester’s cell phone rang.

 

For a split second, they each stopped breathing, then Dean stood up, straightened his clothes and answered the phone. When Sam put his hands back on the table, Dean damn near felt like crying.

 

“This is Officer Winchester,” Dean said, struggling to keep the anger and frustration out of his voice.

 

“You got that info on Prisoner Winchester yet?” his boss asked irritably.

 

“Working on it, sir. These things take time.”

 

“Don’t give me that PC crap. I invented that bullshit and I can damn sure see right through it. I want results and soon, you get me, Winchester?”

 

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Don’t be afraid to lean on him. If someone had been hard on him earlier in life, hell, he might not have ended up here. Do what you need to do, but do it fast.” 

 

Dean closed his eyes as a sweat broke out on his forehead.

 

“I understand.”

 

“Consider this your interview for that transfer you asked about, Winchester. The time for hand holding is over. If you can’t do the job, I’ll find someone who can.”

 

_What a tool,_ Dean thought.

 

“Call me the instant you get anything out of that kid.”

 

Dean bit his lip, then gave up and finally adjusted himself, not really caring anymore that Sam might see. “Yes, sir.” 

 

Dean hung up, then turned slowly and locked eyes with Sam. Sorry, kid. All bets are off.

 

*

 

The phrase ‘Any means necessary’ became Dean’s mantra, his carte blanche over the next half hour as he worked Sam over. Driven by pressure, frustration, confusion and a raging hard-on, Dean unchained Sam from the table, hauled him over to the wall, slammed him against it and started the next phase of his interrogation. 

 

Dean practically crushed Sam’s body as he pressed up against him forcefully, trapping his cuffed hands between them. Dean’s left hand was spread out against the wall next to Sam’s head as his right forearm dug into Sam’s throat with the promise of pain if he didn’t comply. 

 

“I think you know more than you’re telling.”

 

Sam tried to move, to shove Dean away. “Dude, get the hell off me.”

 

Sam’s eyes held fear, yes, but Dean was surprised to find he could feel Sam’s cock straining against his leg as well. Dean swallowed hard.

 

“People are dying around here. For all I know, you’re the fucking perp!” Dean growled.

 

“Dude, I went to clean the bathroom and I got jumped. End of story!” Sam shot back. 

 

“Then I want names!” Dean started exerting slow pressure on Sam’s neck. Sam tried to twist away.

 

“Are you insane?” Sam bit out.

 

“Names!”

 

“Let go!”

 

“I. Want. A. Fucking. Name!” Dean growled.

 

Suddenly, Sam called out the last two words Dean ever expected to hear again.

 

“Eddie Doyle!” Sam yelled. 

 

Dean’s blood ran cold.

 

_Eddie Doyle? Eddie fucking Doyle?_

 

_So, that asshole was still here._

 

The mere mention of his name was galling, let alone the fact that he was still alive and apparently up to his old tricks. They said he’d be gone. Now it seemed absolutely nothing had changed since he had been away, and suddenly, Dean felt completely betrayed. 

 

_They promised._

 

_No wonder they had been delaying the transfer._

 

For lack of a better thing to do, Dean fisted his hands tightly in Sam’s shirt. He had gotten his answer, but the adrenaline was still pumping and he just couldn’t fucking let it go. For his part, Sam had noticed the dark look that had passed over Dean’s features.

 

“Officer Winchester!” Sam shifted and squirmed but couldn’t get any leverage to push Dean away.

 

“Officer Winchester!”

 

Dean was shaking as he yanked Sam forward, then relaxed a little. Dean’s hands began a slow climb toward Sam’s neck.

 

“Dean!” Sam yelled. He struggled under Dean’s weight, but it didn’t matter. Dean’s jaw was clenched tightly with the determination of man who had nothing to lose. 

 

Dean’s eyes were glazed over, wild, distant and unseeing as he grabbed Sam’s collar and yanked him forward sharply, this time cutting off his protest by plunging his tongue into his mouth. It was rough, wet and awkward as Dean poured all his insecurities of the last six months into that kiss. Just as suddenly, Dean pulled back, searching Sam’s face for a reaction. They regarded each other for a moment, then Dean leaned forward again, capturing Sam’s bottom lip with his teeth, then slipped his tongue back into that soft, wet heat. Sam’s yelling and shoving suddenly turned into moaning and thrusting as they finally, slowly, sank into each other. 

 

Dean thrust his knee between Sam’s legs, forcing them open. Sam allowed it as he wedged his still-bound hands deeper between their bodies and started rubbing Dean’s very prominent erection through his pants again.

 

Dean reached for the handcuffs, intent on removing them, when Sam suddenly pulled away sharply. 

 

“Leave it,” he ordered breathlessly. He grinned slyly and Dean thought he was going to come right then.

 

Dean slid his hands behind Sam’s head and cradled it as he drank from his mouth, wondering all the while how he had gone his entire life without feeling like this. His hands caressed Sam’s neck, his face, his hair, and Jesus, he tasted good. Dean’s tongue searched Sam’s mouth hungrily, and a thrill like none he had ever experienced shot through his body and lit his nerve endings on fire as Sam continued to moan and stroke him hard and slow through the fabric of his clothing. 

 

Soft, wet sucking noises filled the room. 

 

Soon, Dean urgently batted Sam’s hands away with one of his own as he pressed his fingers into Sam’s hip and thrust forward. Sam slipped his bound hands up and over his head, resting them against the wall. They both gasped at the friction as their hips met, their cocks rubbing together in frenzied synchronicity as they tortured each other toward their orgasm. 

 

Dean tore his mouth away from Sam’s, his breath ragged as he ground out a few awe-inspired curses. Dean held Sam’s hip firmly with one hand and continued to thrust madly as he slipped Sam’s handcuffs over his head and around the back of his neck. Sam pulled back a little until the chain was just taut around Dean’s flesh, biting into the skin on that fine line between pleasure and pain. Dean’s eyes fluttered. Sam licked his lips.

 

“Christ, Sam!” Dean moaned, perfectly aware that Sam could strangle him at any time. He thrust faster at the thought.

 

A few moments later, their pants were pooled around their feet. Dean could barely stand to pull his body away from Sam’s long enough to slip his hands between them. He wrapped his trembling fingers around their cocks and began jacking them both off with an urgency he usually reserved for himself. The most overwhelmingly pleasurable sounds filled the room as Dean pumped them both with long, hard strokes, pulling and massaging with pliant fingers as Sam writhed helplessly under his touch. He’d never done this before, but some baser instinct guided his hands as he squeezed and rubbed their cocks together, the dual sensation almost driving him over the edge. He did what felt good to him, and by the sounds he was wringing from Sam, he guessed they were in agreement. Sam threw his head back and pushed himself hard against Dean, thrusting his hips wildly.

 

For his part, Dean was torn between reaching what was shaping up to be the best fucking orgasm of his life and staying here in this tortured bliss as long as humanly possible.

 

“Oh, fuck! I knew you’d be good, but Jesus!” Sam panted as he pulled the chain of the handcuffs hard against the back of Dean’s neck again. 

 

And just like that, they were coming. Dean’s knee between Sam’s legs steadied them as they rode out their orgasm together; long, hot spurts of come coated Dean’s hands slick and Sam’s gasps filled his ears as he thrust his cock against Sam’s, grasping desperately at those last few seconds of _ohmygod!_

 

When it was over, they stayed like that for a moment, leaning against each other, breathing each other. Then, in an entirely unexpected act of care, Dean stripped out of his uniform shirt, removed the t-shirt underneath, wrapped it around his hand and gently cleaned them both up. 

 

They were both silent as he worked. Dean felt Sam’s intense gaze lingering on him as he gently stroked his balled up shirt over their bellies. As long as he didn’t stop, they didn’t have to talk.

 

Once they separated and redressed, Dean reluctantly lead Sam back to the table. 

 

“Look,” Dean began awkwardly. Sam stood quietly with his hands in front of him, looking for all the world like the picture of innocence. It made what Dean was about to say all the more difficult. This had to be some sort of personal record, he thought; the come was barely dry and he was already feeling guilty.

 

“I don’t usually…you know…do this sorta thing,” Dean managed to say as he waved a hand helplessly at Sam. He took a deep breath, drawing himself up, then added, “This was a serious misuse of my authority.”

 

Sam still stood there, typically unreadable and unresponsive. Dean wasn’t even sure if Sam had heard him.

 

“I -- I’m sorry,” Dean said. He wasn’t sorry, not really, but he didn’t want any lingering doubt about the nature of their relationship. 

 

Sam slowly raised his hands and, for a split second, Dean was afraid he was going to ask for a hug. He was actually kind of relieved if not completely surprised when Sam hauled off and punched him.

 

*

Dean came to a little about ninety seconds later, but the shifter already had him hand-cuffed to the table. He was sitting at the table with his hands cuffed to the bar underneath. It took a greatly sustained effort for him to raise his head off the tabletop.

 

“Sam?” Dean tried to look around, but he was cuffed in such a way that all he could do was turn his head to the left or right. His face felt sticky, then he realized he was lying in a small puddle of his own blood. He could feel it in his mouth, heavy and thick on his tongue. Suddenly, he felt a hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair, then pulling it to the point of almost being painful. Warm breathe gently ghosted over his cheek as the shifter spoke.

 

“I could lean you over this table and fuck you right now and there wouldn’t be a damn thing you could do to stop me.” 

 

Dean turned his head and spat, partly to clear his mouth of blood, partly to make a point.

 

The shifter laughed, then with his free hand, dipped his thumb in the pool of blood on the table and swiped it gently over Dean’s lips. His voice grew low and dangerous as he whispered, “Or maybe I should fuck you with your own blood, Dean.” 

 

Dean bristled under the touch and at the words, but more so at the sound of the voice. 

 

That didn’t sound like Sam.

 

That sounded like him.


	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes: I'd like to extend a final and huge "thank you" to SylvanWitch for helping me make a good story even better. I tinkered with it a bit post-beta, so you know who's responsible for any mistakes. (That would be me.)  


* * *

Title: Folsom Prison Blues (Revisited)

Author: jdax

Spoilers: Overall Series

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Kripke is God. I’m not worthy.

***

Dean twisted and grunted trying to look over his shoulder, but the shifter held him down hard.

 

All the little hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood up as he slowly opened his mind to the reality that Sam, the _real_ Sam, had been telling the truth all along. Apparently, Eddie Doyle wasn’t the only or most evil thing lurking in Folsom Prison, and Dean could already tell he was going to lose a lot of sleep over that little revelation. If he lived.

 

The shifter continued stroking Dean’s hair and softly whispering poison in his ear.

 

“That seems like something you would do, doesn’t it, Dean? Fuck some poor, unsuspecting kid when he’s bound and helpless.” The shifter reached down and yanked the cuffs pointedly. “Now why does that sound familiar?”

 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Ok, maybe he deserved this. Maybe this was the punishment God had saved him for. He drew in a ragged breath, preparing to take whatever pain was coming to him.

 

“Who are you?” Dean managed to be heard despite his face being pressed against the table.

 

“I’m you, Dean, and I gotta say, you’ve got some serious issues, dude.” The shifter allowed a low whistle to escape his lips. “What Doyle did to you after he capped those poor bastards? Man, that sucks out loud. Oh, sorry…poor choice of words.”

 

Dean’s eyes flew open wide. What the…? Dean thrashed and struggled. _How the hell did he know about Doyle_?

 

“Pretty embarrassing, huh, pretty boy? Didn’t even tell your therapist. Must be why you screw every skirt you see. I know it doesn’t do much for you, but a meaningless fuck with a woman is easier than admitting what you really want, I guess.”

 

Dean stilled. He felt like vomiting. 

 

“Shut up,” he whispered fiercely.

 

The shifter continued unabated. “Doyle is an asshole, but you didn’t hate it, did you?”

 

_Oh, Jesus, please don’t go there_. 

 

“Yeah, you begged for them to stop. It hurt like hell at first, didn’t it?”

 

_Please, don’t_.

 

“But later, after the others had warmed you up…”

 

_No…_

 

“You came twice, Dean. Now how do you explain that?”

 

He’d never been able to, not to his own satisfaction. Dr. Bennet’s platitudes about the meaning of life and Dean’s personal rationalizations were cold comfort when he lay awake at night shaking, drenched in a film of sweat with the oppressive memory of their hands on his body. It was just shamefully true and still stood as the all-time lowest moment of his short, miserable existence. This moment was running a close second.

 

The shifter’s touch had almost become soothing even as his words continued to unravel six month’s worth of hard-won sanity. Dean actually prayed to die right then and didn’t really care where his pathetic soul ended up in the afterlife so long as it was anywhere but here. 

 

“It hurt, didn’t it, Dean? You didn’t know what to do with all the guilt and it’s been eating you up ever since.”

 

Dean didn’t dignify that with a response.

 

“But there’s something I don’t get. You’re fucked up, I get that. It’s okay, but why would you want to do that to a nice kid like Sam? Granted, Sam’s definitely got issues of his own, but still…isn’t your thing to serve and protect? Why would you want to fuck up poor, sweet, _trusting_ Sam? And yeah, he was starting to trust you.”

 

Dean began to balk, but the shifter interrupted him.

 

“Don’t even try to deny it. I know everything you know. I know everything you want.” The shifter laughed. “Soon, Sam will know, too.”

 

The fact that he was still laying there with a mouthful of blood and this creature shredding what was left of his dignity proved to Dean once and for all that what the old Mexican guard had said was really true: God didn’t give a fuck about him.

 

“Shut up!” Dean barked, even as a small compartment of his brain allowed something shaped like hope to emerge. _Did he just admit that Sam was still alive?_

 

“It’s actually kinda funny, Dean. Of the two of you, _Sam’s_ the well-adjusted one. But don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of that.”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

The shifter rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Winchester. I know what you really want from him and it isn’t exactly a handshake. I’m just doing exactly what you would do.”

 

_Ok, he had him there, but it wasn’t just about getting off. This time, it seemed…different. With Sam, there were these…these feelings_. Now it was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes and wonder when he had started acting like a hormonal teenaged girl. _Jeez…_

 

The shifter licked his lips as he abruptly shoved Dean’s discarded t-shirt in his mouth and tied it around his face, effectively creating a gag. Dean yelled and thrashed but to no avail.

 

“God, you were good, Dean. I only hope I’m half that good with Sam,” the shifter said, reaching down and stroking his cock at the memory. “Hmmm…I wonder which one of you I’ll be thinking of when I’m balls deep in his hot, tight body.” Dean made a low, strangled noise in the back of his throat. 

 

The shifter grabbed a fistful of Dean’s hair and yanked his head back. “You _are_ a handsome devil. Tell you what? You’ve been a good sport and you did give me –well, _us_ -an awesome hand job. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.” The shifter pulled Dean’s head back further and whispered, “Sam wants you, too.”

 

Dean stopped struggling as those words worked their way into his brain. He clung to them even though everything in him screamed _lie_. 

 

“But,” the shifter continued, “I hope you enjoyed what you got, because Sam will never have the balls to admit it.”

 

Dean mulled that over and the truth of it became clear.

 

“Doesn’t matter, though, ‘cause the guilt of our fuck session will haunt you every time you look at his sweet, innocent face. You’ll jerk off to the thought of him for the rest of your miserable life, but you’ll never be able to have him. Hell, you’ll never be able to think about him without feeling like the world’s biggest perv.”

 

It was already true. 

 

The shifter’s hand tightened in Dean’s hair as he added with a sinister laugh, “I, on the other hand, have no problem at all fucking Sam’s sweet, tight ass. Good luck ever being able to get him to look you in the eye again after I’m done with him. No hard feelings, though.”

 

And with that, he slammed Dean’s head against the table.

***

Later that afternoon, Dean was found in interview room two bloody, dehydrated and babbling incoherently about something called a shape shifter. The paramedics chalked it up to trauma as they fought with him to lay down on the gurney so they could check him over.

 

“Did you see him?” Dean asked.

 

“Calm down, sir.”

 

“Did you _see_ him?” Dean pressed.

 

“Only person in or out of here recently was the janitor, sir, but security tapes will be checked. Now, if you could please…”

 

_Damn it! The security tapes!_ Dean would have smacked his forehead if he could have reached it.

 

“I need to get out of here!” Dean insisted as he tore at the restraints they were putting on him. He didn’t think he could stand to be bound again.

 

One paramedic glanced over at the other and sighed, saying, “As soon as we make sure you’re okay.” _Poor son-of-a bitch_.

 

Dean wasn’t an idiot. He knew that tone. He’d used it before. They had no intention of letting him go anywhere. Dean was panicked and pissed and he’d had several hours to imagine the vile things that shape-shifting bastard was doing to Sam. It made him ache inside with guilt and worry. Still, Dean was coherent enough to know what this looked like to them and the best way to get what he wanted here was to conceal his real motives. He decided to stow the shape-shifter story and speak to them in terms they would understand. He stilled himself as he looked one of the paramedics straight in the eye.

 

“You should be looking for Sa… Prisoner Winchester, not jacking around here with me.”

 

“People are on it,” the young man said flatly as he returned Dean’s cold, hard stare, then added, “Don’t make me sedate you, sir.”

 

As far as they were concerned, Prisoner Winchester was missing and Officer Winchester was the last one to see him. Dean had no way of telling them that they should be looking for a man who looked like him, not without getting himself permanently committed, but finding Sam was just as good and would probably lead them to the shape-shifter anyway. If it wasn’t already too late.

 

Dean laid back and let them work, trying hard to ignore the knot in his stomach and the fairly palpable countdown happening in his head.

***

The next afternoon, Dean found himself sitting in the warden’s office with a pounding headache and a mile long list of questions to answer regarding the disappearance of prisoner 81A3826. Dean had been dreading this since they found him, knowing that there would be inevitable gaps in his story that he wouldn’t be able to fill in without perjuring himself or earning a bed at the state mental hospital. He had decided to fake amnesia to buy himself some time.

 

“I’m sorry, sir, “Dean said for the third time. “I don’t remember what happened.”

 

Warden Jeff Morgan looked at Dean with a mix of pity and suspicion as he clutched a handful of reports and shook his head.

 

“This doesn’t add up, Winchester, so let’s start again. You were questioning the prisoner about a possible attack dated last Friday, right?”

 

“Yes, that’s what the reports say.”

 

“Then, what, he suddenly attacks you?”

 

“Apparently,” Dean said, gently touching the stitches on his forehead. 

 

Morgan shook his head in disbelief. A look of pained recognition crossed Dean’s face as the warden fixed him with an intense, almost paternal stare. The younger man suddenly felt a pang of guilt for his clumsily concealed lie.

 

Dean shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

 

“I’m just…surprised.” The warden shuffled through the reports in his hand. “The paramedics claim you were talking about…about, what was it? Shape-shifters?”

 

“I don’t recall, sir.”

 

“I’ve been looking at your interview notes regarding Prisoner Winchester. Your claims and his are starting to sound very… similar. I can’t help but wonder, son, are you actually buying his bullshit? ‘Cause if you are, that puts an entirely different spin on this thing.”

 

Dean flinched at the gentle, almost intimate use of the word son. He’d always had a good if distant relationship with the warden. Dean respected him and feared that he might just be able to get him to reveal himself now. His resolve cracked a little under the older man’s intense gaze.

 

“I assure you sir, amnesia or not, I didn’t help him escape, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

 

“Then _what happened_?” the warden asked for the fourth time.

 

“I really don’t know what to tell you, sir.” That was actually true.

 

The warden sat back and sighed. “Well, you better come up with something. You can count on a full investigation, and _they_ won’t pull any punches.”

 

_Great_. Dean doubted he could convincingly sell amnesia that long.

 

“Look,” the warden said as he stood up. Dean stood, too. “Go back to your office and wait for me. I’m going to make some phone calls and see where we go from here.

 

Dean stared at the warden. “Am I under arrest?”

 

“Not formally.”

 

“Sir, I assure you I’m not …there’s nothing…I didn’t…”

 

The warden held up a hand to halt his ineffective protest.

 

“This is my call and probably one of the last ones I’m going to get to make regarding you and this case.”

 

_Well, that didn’t sound good at all_.

 

“Don’t fight me on this, Dean,” the warden continued. “I’m well within my rights to have you put on a twenty-four hour psychiatric hold just based on the information I already have. You better pray the feds don’t come up with anything else. Now, go to your office and wait for me.”

 

“Sir, if you’ll just give me some time to…”

 

“Dismissed!”

***

The clock was ticking and Dean knew it. Once he was safely behind his locked office door, he began scouring his file cabinet for all the incident reports he had filed over the last month. He had scanned them a few times while he’d been filing them and certain words had jumped out at him -- _unknown, unexplained, mysterious, strange, and bizarre_ \-- and one word that had stayed with him above all others: someone had described the events as almost _supernatural_.

 

The only word that had come to Dean’s mind at the time was _whack-jobs_.

 

Now he knew better. Those reports stood as evidence that he wasn’t the only one who thought there was something unnatural happening within the prison walls. Moreover, they might be the only thing standing between him and prison time, depending on how the investigation turned out. 

 

_So, where the hell were they_? 

 

Dean suddenly realized with a horrible sinking feeling that the shifter had probably destroyed them. Why not? They gave away his presence. They didn’t name a shape-shifter, exactly, but they created suspicion. He would have had plenty of time to shred most if not all of those reports before Dean was discovered. 

 

He looked around the room and wondered what else the shifter had done while he was here.

 

He was suddenly intent on calling Warden Morgan and asking for another meeting when a slip of paper peeking out from under the phone caught his eye. Yanking it out, Dean read the three scrawled words: _No Hard Feelings_.

 

That couldn’t be good. He decided not to wait around to find out if he was right.

***

By the time Dean arrived at his apartment less than twenty minutes later, he had more or less embraced the fact that life as he knew it was pretty much over. He was either destined for prison or a life on the run, but either way, he knew things would never be the same for him again.

 

He grabbed a duffle bag out of his closet and started packing it, marveling the whole time that walking away from his world wasn’t hard at all. He realized that there was nothing here he would miss because all the things that had ever mattered to him had already been lost.

***

That night, Dean checked into a seedy motel fifty miles north of Folsom. He didn’t know where he was going, but this trajectory still made Canada an option, if necessary. Dean spent most of the night sitting in the dark with his gun in his lap as he listened, waited and watched. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he’d had enough time to convince himself that maybe it was too late to save Sam and all that was left now was choosing a rock to hide under.

 

Around 2 a.m., Dean conceded that he was wasting time, so he picked up his things and headed out the door. He was locking up when he could have sworn he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He looked around but saw nothing. Still, his muscles tensed as he walked quickly to the car, his gaze darting back and forth, scanning the parking lot as he approached the vehicle.

 

_This level of paranoia was definitely going to take a lot of getting used to_.

 

He was approaching the driver’s side door when thought he saw another movement in the shadows. Quietly, Dean lowered his bag to the ground and raised his gun. The cops would have called him out. This was something bad, and he wasn’t going to wait for it to get worse.

 

“Show yourself, you son-of-a bitch!” Dean growled as he trained his weapon toward the movement.

 

A figure emerged, bruised and beaten, with its trembling fingers raised in the universal sign of surrender.

 

Dean whispered his name tentatively, hopefully, suspiciously.

 

“Sam?”

***

Dean took a step forward and pointed the gun squarely at Sam’s chest.

 

“Are you him?” Dean asked.

 

Sam knew without asking who he was talking about. His body language and demeanor held all the earmarks of a shape-shifter victim. 

 

“It’s me, Dean. It’s Sam.”

 

“How do I know? How do I know you aren’t the fucking shifter again?” Dean bit out.

 

Sam shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure what would convince you,” he admitted. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he said, “Cut me.”

 

“What?”

 

“Cut me!” Sam insisted. “If I’m the shifter, I’ll ooze instead of bleed.”

 

“Another lie?” Dean growled.

 

“There’s a silver letter opener strapped to my left leg,” Sam said. “Take it. I won’t stop you.”

 

“A letter opener?” Dean asked incredulously.

 

“Silver is the only thing I’ve seen that hurts a shifter,” Sam explained. “A letter opener was also the only thing I could get my hands on in prison.”

 

“A letter opener?” Dean repeated. At some point he’d figured out that the shifter had freed himself from the handcuffs with a paperclip Dean had left on the table with his files when he’d gone to get coffee for them. Apparently, office supplies were the tools of the supernatural trade. Dean shook his head and filed that one under _alrightythen_. 

 

Dean regarded Sam for a moment, then moved to find it. His cold stare never left Sam’s face as he crouched down next to his leg. Dean pressed the barrel of the gun to Sam’s thigh as his free hand snaked up the pant leg and touched cold, hard metal, his finger tips lingering on the surrounding flesh a little longer than was strictly necessary. Sam shivered and Dean felt it.

 

Dean quickly regained his feet. 

 

“What happened to you?” Dean asked, nodding toward the fresh bruises on his face.

 

“What do you think?”

 

“Shifter?”

 

“Yeah, bastard jumped me _as_ me! How fucked up is that?”

 

Dean’s eyes grew wide with surprise and then recognition as the image of that came together in his mind. He shuddered.

 

“How’d you escape?”

 

“I’m a hunter, Dean. There’s not a whole lot I can’t do, eventually. Once I managed to get free of the rope he tied me with, I decided to take advantage of the fact that no one knew I was missing.”

 

Dean nodded slow approval. _Not bad_.

 

“But how’d you do it?” Dean asked, his doubt slowly giving way to curiosity.

 

“He made the mistake of hiding me near the vents. Guess he didn’t have a lot of options without being spotted.”

 

Dean looked down at the letter opener clutched in his hand and hesitated. He still wasn’t sure, and Sam knew he needed to be.

 

“Do it,” Sam insisted as he offered his arm.

 

Dean poised the blade over Sam’s flesh with one hand as he held the gun to his chest with the other. “If this isn’t blood, I’m gonna kill you. You know that, right?” 

 

Sam nodded. “Just do it, already!” The next thing they both knew, Sam wrapped Dean’s fingers around the handle and they were dragging the blade across Sam’s arm together. Blood beaded, then spilled in a deep line across Sam’s flesh, splattering on the pavement below.

 

“Ok, enough,” Dean said as the pain on Sam’s face became too much for him to bear. He took control of it, pulling the blade away from Sam and allowing him to press his still-bleeding arm to his chest. 

 

“Do you believe me now?” Sam asked as Dean lowered the gun and handed the letter opener back to him.

 

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Dean admitted. “For all I know, you could be the shifter lying to me again.”

 

“If that’s what you really think, you should keep this,” he said, pressing the blood-tipped letter opener back into Dean’s hand.

 

Dean shrugged and pushed Sam’s hand away.

 

“What can I do to convince you I am who I say I am?”

 

Their eyes locked and suddenly Dean knew there was one way and only one way he’d believe him.

 

Dean slipped the gun into the waistband of his jeans, then reached up with both hands and cupped Sam’s face. Sam drew back with a panicked look in his eyes and really, that should have been enough, but Dean had to _know_.

 

Sam’s lips, hell, his _whole body_ trembled, as Dean closed the gap between them. He pressed himself to Sam, then coaxed his lips open with a warm, insistent tongue. It wasn’t demanding and selfish as it had been with the shifter, just…curious.

 

Sam was slow to open to him and he moaned and whimpered under Dean’s hold, clearly unsure what to do.

 

Dean pulled back and looked at Sam’s face. The confused, pained arousal in Sam’s eyes paired with the rather comical look of utter shock told Dean everything he needed to know; he wasn’t the shifter, and more importantly in Dean’s mind, the shifter hadn’t carried out the graphic threat of harm he had promised in the interview room. At that moment, Dean made it his personal mission to make sure that he never did. 

 

Dean stepped away and walked over to the trunk to get the first aid kit, leaving Sam to wonder what the hell had just happened. When Dean reemerged with some bandaging, scissors and surgical tape, Sam was still standing there, eyes wide, fingers gently touching his lip. 

 

“Getting better with those intimidation tactics,” Sam observed in an awed tone. “Uh…is there something you wanna tell me?” he asked cautiously.

 

“Nope,” Dean said as he began unrolling the bandage.

 

“Maybe we should talk ab…”

 

“No.” Dean reached for Sam’s arm.

 

Sam sighed in frustration. “At the very least, we should…”

 

Dean stopped and looked Sam square in the eye.

 

“Do you trust me?” Dean asked.

 

Sam’s eyes narrowed.

 

“What does that have to do with…”

 

“Do you trust me, Sam? It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam said slowly. “I barely know you, but yeah, I trust you.”

 

“Then believe me when I say you don’t wanna know.”

 

Curiosity almost got the better of him, but Sam clamped down on the questions threatening to tumble from his lips and just nodded.

 

“Here,” Dean said, handing him the tape. “Help me patch you up.” They worked in silence, their breathing the only sound between them. Dean cut and bandaged while Sam held still and tried not to stare. The kiss still burned in his memory, but he didn’t say anything.

 

“Hey, nice work,” Sam said when Dean was finished. “That’s gonna come in handy.”

 

“What do you mean?” Dean asked as he put the supplies in his duffle bag.

 

“I could use someone who knows how to patch up wounds. I’m good at it, but there are some spots you just can’t reach by yourself, you know?”

 

Dean blinked, then his eyes narrowed as he studied Sam’s face, waiting for the punch line. There wasn’t one.

 

“What? Stop looking at me like that,” Sam shifted uncomfortably.

 

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Dean shrugged. He broke the stare and looked down nervously at his feet for a minute before he dared to look at Sam again, this time with less intensity. He grinned a little. “Are you asking me to be your hunting partner?”

 

Sam shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

 

Dean laughed cryptically and looked around. “Christ, could this day get any weirder?”

 

“Look, not to ruin the moment, but I kind of need an answer,” Sam pointed out. “If I found you, the shifter can. We need to get going.”

 

Dean still seemed undecided.

 

“What are your options, Dean? If you don’t come with me, what are you gonna do? Hide out in this crappy motel wondering if it will be the state or the shifter who finds you first?”

 

Dean still didn’t move.

 

Sam tried again. “I have friends, connections who can help us. You’re committed no matter what. You can’t go back to your old life now, but if you come with me, you can build a new one.”

 

Dean reached down and picked up his duffle, saying simply. “I drive.”

 

“Not that piece of crap,” Sam grinned, nodding towards the Nova.

 

“You got something better in mind?”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

Dean was about thirty seconds away from meeting the _other_ love of his life.

***

The next morning at 8 a.m. sharp, the door to Warden Morgan’s office flew open as his assistant bustled in just ahead of a federal agent.

 

“Sorry, sir. He wouldn’t wait,” she said nervously.

 

Morgan had barely set his coffee mug down when the agent started rattling off a bunch of charges.

 

“Mail fraud, credit card fraud, arson, grave desecration, first degree murder, and my personal favorite, impersonating a federal marshal.” 

 

Warden Morgan stood and extended his hand. “And you are?”

 

“Special Agent Henricksen,” he said, ignoring the warden’s hand. “And due to your lax security, Sam Winchester can now add escaped con to his rap sheet.”

 

Morgan stiffened at the insult. “I assure you we are employing every resource to find him.”

 

“I’m actually sorry to hear that, Morgan. It doesn’t bode well for the prisoners who are still here.”

 

_Here it comes_ , Morgan thought.

 

“Your inmates are disappearing and dying at an alarming rate. Why, just this morning one, what was his name? Oh, yeah, Eddie Doyle was found slumped over his tray at the chow table.”

 

“Yes, I just got the report a few minutes ago,” Morgan admitted.

 

“What did it say?”

 

Morgan hesitated.

 

“What did it say?” Henricksen pressed.

 

“Ground glass in his oatmeal.”

 

“What else did it say?”

 

Morgan looked confused. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

 

“Let me fill you in. It took some prodding, but one of your line cooks told me he got a phone call yesterday from someone identifying himself only by the name Winchester. He claims the person offered to pay him to kill Doyle.”

 

Morgan shook his head slowly in disbelief. “There must be some mistake. Winchester is one of my best. There’s no way…”

 

“One of your best?” Henricksen interrupted. “I hear he just came off a six month leave of absence for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and lo and behold, a month later, one of the cons responsible for his meltdown is found face down in a pool of his own blood. Are you actually trying to convince me he didn’t do it?”

 

“There’s every chance it was Prisoner Winchester, not De…not Officer Winchester,” Warden Morgan pointed out.

 

Agent Henricksen snorted. “Well, _Officer Winchester_ will have plenty of time to try and convince me of that during his interrogation. Where is he?” 

 

“Home, I suppose.”

 

“You _suppose_? The man should be in holding.”

 

“Look, he’s had a really hard time recently. He came back to work and for that he gets kicked in the teeth again. I wasn’t going to bust his chops for going home early yesterday, not after everything that’s happened. He _needed_ to cool off.”

 

Henricksen continued to glare at him, clearly unmoved. 

 

Morgan shifted uncomfortably. 

 

Just then, there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” the warden and the agent said in unison. Morgan held his temper in check as Henricksen threw an impatient glance at the young officer standing in the doorway.

 

“What is it, Gordon?” Morgan asked.

 

“Sir, I have some things here I think you should see.” 

 

Morgan cast a glance at Henricksen. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here. Can’t this wait?”

 

“No, sir, I don’t believe that it can.”

 

Morgan sighed, then gestured for the young man to approach. The officer entered the room, setting a specimen cup and an envelope on the desk. 

 

The two older men looked at the items, then at Officer Gordon.

 

“What is this?” Henricksen demanded as he picked up the specimen cup. He turned it slowly, trying to decipher the strange, murky gel inside. 

 

“We’ve been trying to determine that for some time,” Warden Morgan said carefully. 

 

The agent cast a scowl at the Warden. “You’ve seen this before?”

 

“Yes, but we don’t know what it is or where it comes from. All we know is that this substance has been found at fairly regular intervals in certain parts of the prison over the last several months.”

 

He had barely stopped speaking when Officer Gordon added helpfully, “This one was found in interview room two, sir, shortly after Prisoner Sam Winchester escaped.” 

 

“Is that so?” Henricksen replied.

 

“And this,” Gordon said as he opened the envelope, “was recovered from Officer Dean Winchester’s desk.” He revealed a sheet of paper with the words ‘No Hard Feelings’ written across it.

 

The agent and the warden exchanged baffled glances.

 

Henricksen rolled his eyes. “This just gets better and better,” he mumbled. He pointed an accusatory finger at Morgan. “I’m taking a black and white and one of your guards to pick him up. You better pray he’s still there or it’s gonna be your ass on the line when I get back.”

 

*

 

Warden Morgan absently fingered the blinds of his office window as he watched Henricksen and Officer Gordon drive away. Once they were out of sight, he sat down at his desk again, took a deep breath, then picked up the phone.

 

As was her habit, his assistant picked up on the first ring.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Chloe, hold all my calls for the next half hour, please.”

 

She was quiet.

 

“Is there a problem, Chloe?”

 

“No, sir. Well, it’s just that you have a tour to lead in fifteen minutes.”

 

Damn. He’d forgotten. 

 

“They wouldn’t take kindly to another postponement, sir,” she pointed out.

 

“Yes, you’re right,” he agreed as he dug into his pocket for his keys. “Don’t postpone it.” He fingered his way through his keys until he found the one he was looking for. “Cancel it.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“You heard me, Chloe. And hold my calls.” With that, he hung up. 

 

Morgan had some trouble opening the wall safe. Quite frankly, he didn’t like to go near it, as it was hidden behind a creepy, early twentieth-century painting of a morose- looking family, if they could really be called that. It was horrific, really, and he’d thought more than once that it needed to be put out of its misery. 

 

Soon, Morgan was sitting back at his desk holding the only copies of the security tapes from interview room two. Henricksen would want these. Morgan would be doing him a favor by turning them in.

 

*

 

Twenty minutes later, the warden was standing over a metal trash barrel behind the cafeteria as he watched the painting and the security tapes go up in flames.

***

“Man, this ride is _sweet_!” Dean cooed as he coaxed the Impala just a little faster down the highway.

 

Sam smiled for the first time in a long while as he leaned back against the seat and rested his arm on the window sill. The breeze and the sunlight had been missed. “Slow down, dude. We don’t wanna get pulled over by a…” he glanced over at Dean, “Well, you know.”

 

“Yeah, alright,” Dean conceded.

 

They rode in silence for awhile until Dean noticed a strange sound coming from Sam.

 

“What?” Dean asked, genuinely puzzled.

 

Sam sniffed again, then grinned that lop-sided way of his. “Did you quit smoking?”

 

Dean’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. “How did you know that? I never smoked in front of you.”

 

Sam enjoyed Dean’s bewilderment for a moment longer then said, “I could smell it on your clothes when we met. Pretty gross, really. I mean, come on, why would you go around smelling li…” 

 

“You made your point, Sam!” Dean said irritably, but without malice.

 

Sam teasingly added, “And your lighter just fell out of your pocket.”

 

Dean glanced down on the seat between them and saw his silver Zippo laying there.

 

“Huh, well, what do ya know?” He picked it up in his right hand and brought it to the steering wheel, turning it in the sunlight as if it were a precious jewel. He sighed, then shrugged. “Well, guess I can get rid of this,” he finally said.

 

Suddenly, Dean felt a hand on his shoulder and he flinched slightly at the subtle, unexpected contact. Sam’s smile had dissolved into a look that told him he still had a lot to learn about this guy.

 

“Keep it,” Sam said, nodding toward the lighter. “You’re gonna need it.”

 

Dean glanced between Sam, the road and the silver object shining in his hand. Suddenly, he felt like he didn’t know what to do with any of them.

 

“The word you’re looking for is ‘Why’?” Sam offered. He couldn’t get over how much Dean’s befuddled expression mimicked his own when he had first started out. 

 

“No, it isn’t,” Dean said slowly as he slipped the lighter back into his pocket. His brain couldn’t handle anymore X-File crap, so he chose to ignore the cryptic remark for the time being. He suspected that, eventually, Sam would reveal things to him he would later regret knowing, but he was in this now, so he just settled back and enjoyed what was left of his denial.

 

“Hey, we need some driving music,” Dean suggested by way of changing the subject.

 

Sam turned and reached for a box sitting on the backseat. “Well, we have this,” he said doubtfully as he began fishing through the collection of cassette tapes. “Bobby must have left them here when he loaned me the car.”

 

“Read ‘em off,” Dean said.

 

Sam turned the tiny, cracked plastic cases this way and that as he read the titles, his interest waning with every one. “I thought Bobby knew me better than this,” he said finally.

 

Dean laughed and his face brightened. “Maybe he’s trying to educate you about the finer points of music. Come on, man, this is classic rock,” he said with a level of enthusiasm Sam found a little concerning. 

 

Sam peered at him. “This is mullet rock.”

 

Dean reached over and grabbed a tape out of the box. “House rules, Sammy. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.” Just when Sam was beginning to re-think this arrangement, Dean flashed him a huge grin and all was right with the world. At least for now. 

 

Sam couldn’t help but smile back even as he said, “Don’t call me Sammy. The name is Sam.”

 

 

\--- The End


End file.
